In modern – as in ancient – times, one of the prevailing world views is that the universe consists of nothing more than material substance, of no more than what we can perceive with our five senses. Good old solid matter. Or is it? Until around 100 years ago, the idea of the indestructability of matter held firm. But the advent of physicists like Ernest Rutherford, Niels Bohr, and many others brought laboratory proof that far from being solid, matter is mostly comprised of empty space. Further research has led to the realization that the only reason we don’t fall through the floor under the influence of gravity is due to electromagnetic forces between and within atoms.

Encouraged by these discoveries, enthusiastic scientists have subjected atoms and subatomic particles to increasingly higher energies, breaking them into ever smaller fragments, with the net result that after 100 years of study, scientists have realized that so-called matter is nothing more than a dance of tiny particles. And if you apply enough energy, you can generally break these particles into even smaller ones. Someone called it the ‘particle zoo’.

The question is, from a mystical as well as a scientific perspective, what are these particles made of? And more than that, what keeps them endlessly zooming about? To cut a long story short, the scientists’ conclusion is that these particles are not little solid blobs of something at all. They are nothing more than vortices or tiny pumps of energy spinning or pumping energy out of pure space. They have properties such as mass or electrical charge, which give us the illusion of something substantial. But actually, they are just patterns or points of energy in space. So the question then becomes, what is space? And the answer seems to be that far from being empty, space itself is pure energy in potential, ready to be whipped up into the particles and atoms that go on to give us the illusion of good old solid matter. Space, by the way, is an aspect of the fifth element – ether, or akash, of Indian terminology.

The physical universe is thus no more than a dance of energy spun out of the space that defines it. It is all a magic show. Mystics have called the world an illusion,  maya in Indian terminology, and it seems that the scientists have verified this at a deeply fundamental level. What they have as yet been unable to determine is the source of the energy that keeps it going; for an integral aspect of this energy dance is its motion and energy, which never seems to diminish or stop. Mystics, on the other hand, have no difficulty in identifying the source of energy. The divine Source, they say, has created everything by means of a creative power. They have called it a Sound, a Word, a Voice, a Music, and by a multitude of other names. It is a dynamic vibration that “rolls and flows through all things”; it is the power of God in creative action. It is also consciousness and intelligence in action – the consciousness and intelligence of the Divine.

Scientists have made considerable progress in describing these forces. Intriguingly, they also feel that it should be possible to describe all the fundamental forces of nature in one grand unified theory (a GUT), one grand formulation, one “theory of everything”. This in itself is significant, for it seems to indicate that there is an unconscious acknowledgment that all of nature originates from one Source. In essence, the problems with the current scientific description of basic matter boil down to trying to reconcile the macroscopic force of gravity, which holds entire galaxies and solar systems together, with the submicroscopic forces of electromagnetism that hold atoms and molecules together. One of the most successful GUTs or unified mathematical descriptions of these forces is known as String Theory.

String Theory says that all subatomic particles consist not of points in space but of vibrations in ultra-tiny one-dimensional energy strings. As GUT theories go, it’s pretty good, but it has one fundamental drawback. These strings are so tiny that the theory cannot (so far) be tested in the laboratory. It therefore remains at the level of mathematical speculation, or philosophy in the language of mathematics. It also has various bizarre, allied but essential notions, like the suggestion that spacetime is really 11-dimensional, the extra dimensions being wrapped up so small that we can’t see them (whatever that may mean!). String Theory is also responsible for the notion of an infinitude of parallel universes, much beloved of science fiction writers. Even more problematic, is its inability to explain the masses of known particles.

So it’s a good idea, but other descriptions of the material universe as originating from the energy of space may yet prove simpler, more testable, and more able to describe the properties of the subatomic particles with which physicists are familiar. It may even be possible to extract clean energy from the space around us for human needs. But however the scientists try to describe it or make technological use of it, the fundamental problem still remains – what keeps the universe going? Where does the all the energy come from? And where does all the order, organization and seeming intelligence that we observe in the universe originate? Mystics have an answer, the divine Word – the Om or the Shabda as Indian mystics have called it. The ultradynamic, creative and intelligent divine Presence in all things.

But for most of us, this – like String Theory – remains just a description that appeals to us, a perspective we can relate to. The only way to know for sure what’s going on is to forget all the theories, and to sit down in meditation; allow our consciousness to expand and be taken up, so that we can see for ourselves how the whole show is put together. Then we will see how matter is an expression of consciousness, and how consciousness is the essence of the Divine. Out with the theory, and in with personal experience.

In Part 1 of his book, LaViolette lays out his theory of subquantum kinetics. Using precisely the kinds of rhetorical devices —namely, imagery, metaphor, decree, and supposition—that are employed in almost all standard scientific models of “physical reality” (whatever that is), he offers us an open systems theory of continuous creation rooted in organic processes of self-organization. Absolute Newtonian space and time are reinstated, along with the ether of nineteenth century vintage (the long-thought-to-be-discredited prime substance said to pervade this boundless Euclidian space and “infinite” time). LaViolette doesn’t entertain the notion of “creation ex nihilo” because he views space, time, and the ether as the precursors of creation, regarding them as essentially uncreated. The elements and processes necessary for LaViollette’s creation story arise “spontaneously,” which is to say “unpredictably,” which is to say “inexplicably.”

LaViolette is clearly aware of the irreducible mysteriousness of this entire creation business, as were the ancient mythographers we now discount as hopelessly naïve.  All creation schemes, scientific or otherwise, are unavoidably metaphorical. LaViolette’s metaphors, however, have two virtues: (1) they are more-or-less coherent; and, (2) given the suggested correlations, they seem to conform well with some of our important ancient creation narratives. Relativistic cosmology, on the other hand, employs metaphors that are as incoherent as those of modern mathematics, and they conform to nothing (except perhaps the God of the Old Testament, an apparent, part-time psychopath). 

The second part of “Genesis of the Cosmos” is, among other things, a fascinating and very specific mapping of various mythological characters onto LaViolette’s scientific “continuous creation” theory of microphysics. Special emphasis is granted the Babylonian “Enuma elish,” starring the hero Marduk (order) and the villain Tiamat (the saltwater ocean, entropy, uniformity, disorder). The central Egyptian myth of Osiris, Seth, and Horus is also featured, along with the Greek pantheon of humanized deities. LaViolette sees all of them in terms of his essential creation context or theme of the emergence of order from disorder, the endless battle against incipient entropy. Although this is certainly a fundamental issue, and quite appropriate to the material examined, not all (or even most) archaic narratives frame creation in these terms. Other prominent contextualizations include the perennial concern with the arising of multiplicity from Unity and more contemporary interests such as, for example, Spencer Brown’s investigation in Laws of Form of the consequences of making a “First Distinction”. When all is said and done, however, it is hard to disagree with LaViolette’s conclusion that the ancient world’s scientific and mythically-encoded creation theory puts modern physical theory to shame.

Elsewhere in the book he probes both the Tarot and ancient astrology and concludes that they provide us with a coherent, plausible, and complete theory of the microcosmic/sub-atomic processes involved in the creation of the physical universe:  “…the Tarot metaphorically encodes the same process-based creation metaphysics conveyed in the myth of Osiris… [With an understanding of] the emergence of ordered patterns in non equilibrium systems, we can now for the first time resurrect the Tarot’s ancient wisdom”.
{pagebreak}
The I Ching is similarly aligned with theory. Even legendary Atlantis finds a home in and as every galaxy’s core. In LaViolette’s view, the cores of galaxies are not black holes but rather the prolific sources of continuous matter-generation.  This symbolic and generic positioning of Atlantis is a little startling, but at least it lies beyond the Straights of Gibraltar, as Plato insisted. These are touchy subjects, too easily ridiculed, and I’ll forgo further comment because I lack the background necessary to speak authoritatively either way. Let the reader decide, and good luck to you.

I have looked into mythology, however, and, insofar as most of us seem to have little knowledge and even less understanding of this ancient and complex art form, a few observations and comments might be helpful.
As the author is careful to say, “Genesis of the Cosmos” is concerned with the creation of the physical universe. The scientific method is based upon induction with respect to data which is derived from empirical observations which can be measured or somehow quantified. Scientific theories must conform to the way the universe appears (to scientists), regardless of any underlying, non-empirical presuppositions.

Science, therefore, has nothing to say about Consciousness Itself (aka “Cosmic Consciousness”). Unburdened by the scope-restricting limitations of the scientific method, however, ancient mythology and cosmology have, by contrast, a great deal to say about Consciousness Itself, despite the inherently paradoxical nature of such an undertaking. The unifying concept and commitment of ancient Egyptian culture, for example, is expressed by their word “Maāt”, which signifies both Cosmic Order and Harmony and Consciousness Itself. Any effort to correlate modern scientific theories of “creation” (or matter/energy) with ancient worldviews is necessarily concerned only with Cosmic Order and Harmony but not with Consciousness per se. This is as it should be, so even though I am pointing out a limitation in all such correlations, this inherent limitation should not be taken as a criticism. On the contrary, I applaud LaViolette for drawing our attention to this very limitation. I interpret his silence concerning Consciousness as merely the appropriate posture of a scientist talking about science.

The underlying theme of “order out of chaos” and the assumption of an all-pervasive, uncreated ether leads to an apparent contradiction or confusion which I will try to clarify.  LaViolette views the ether as an “etheric substance” having the properties of uniformity, entropy, chaos, and disorder. This initial state is also characterized by “perfect symmetry”; hence, perfect symmetry is identified with chaos and disorder. This seems a queer and contradictory juxtaposition. A uniform field is not disordered or chaotic as we normally understand these terms, and calling it perfectly symmetrical doesn’t seem quite right either.

The idea that a uniform field is disordered comes from the notion of entropy and the second law of thermodynamics. Entropy measures the disorder of a physical system. The law says that complex physical systems, such as the universe, exhibit a natural evolution toward greater disorder. The progression is from order, which is highly structured, to disorder, the dissipation of structure and organization. The end-state of greatest disorder (high entropy) could be understood in spatial terms as a uniform field in which a multitude of homogeneous constituents are evenly or uniformly distributed.

Thermodynamics speaks of uniformity at the end of creative transformation, whereas LaViolette supposes an initial state of uniformity before creation proper has even begun. At the same time, he imports the contemporary scientific understanding of entropy into his scheme. This seems to be where the problem lies. If we begin with the idea of uniformity, or a uniform field, then uniformity is the first property (characteristic) to be introduced or “brought to order.” The idea of order itself has not yet been introduced, nor is there some prior or previous order which could inform us. Creation is all about the emergence of order, and it is this arising of order which introduces (or is accompanied by) the notion and the possibility of disorder. The initial uniformity is not disordered but rather unordered. It has no order, but it is not thereby “out of order”—it was never put “in order” to begin with. That is what Creation is going to do.

In fact, if one wishes to speak of order and disorder, as LaViolette has realized, the mind and its grammar demand that something—some things, objects—be introduced that can be put in or out of order. This is accomplished by introducing the ether’s subtle “constituents,” called “etherons”, which continuously react and transmute. Anyone who seriously thinks about cosmogenesis or cosmogony has to deal with these kinds of distinctions, just as they must recognize that a word like “chaos” may have meant something quite different “once upon a time.”

Nevertheless, LaViolette’s basic creation context of “order emerging out of chaos” fits the mythological narratives which he examines quite well, as does his identification of Zeus/Marduk/Horus as the victorious hero of the new world order. LaViolette’s understanding of Kronos/Saturn, however, is more problematic, for it conflicts with a widespread and traditional view of Saturn’s characteristics and function. Forced to fit the mold of an “order out of chaos” theme, Saturn becomes the dark side, very Seth-like, representing chaos and time (and therefore flux). While Saturn is a very complex mythological character who can be “stretched” to accommodate more than one interpretive bias (and LaViolette does present some justification for his view), the dominant view of the ancient world appears to be otherwise: Saturn was the ruler of humanity’s “Golden Age” preceding our present precessional age, the happy time when there was perfect Cosmic Order and Harmony. Corresponding to Ea/Enki, Saturn gives the measures; therefore, he represents order, not chaos. The golden age was understood to be “eternal,” and as the Lord of both time and the Golden Age, Saturn symbolizes eternity. When overthrown by his son Zeus, Saturn retired to Canopus/Eridu (the seat of Rita, or measure), where he “sleeps” (incubates) in a golden cave. By way of confirmation, the Egyptian Saturn is Ptah, the divine blacksmith—a creator, not a destroyer. 
{pagebreak}
How are we to understand such diametrically opposed interpretations of Saturn’s mythological significance? Perhaps the best explanation is that this is a consequence of the transformation of mythic themes both over time and by different cultures.  LaViolette is certainly not alone in his interpretation: In “Matrix of Creation”, Richard Heath also sees Saturn as the analogue of Seth and even Satan, the cruel personification of chaos and the symbol of time. As I’ve said, there is some justification for this view, especially if Greek mythology is our primary source. For many people, the phrases “ancient world” and “ancient mythology” are hardwired to ancient Greece, the place where “it all began”. 

When I speak of the presiding view of the ancient world, however, I am referring principally to cultures that preceded the Greeks. These earlier cultures seemed to maintain a deep commitment to the Egyptian concept of Maat, or Cosmic harmony and Consciousness Itself.  This transition was historically unique and profoundly significant:  Ancient Greece was the first great culture which disconnected from its inheritance and no longer understood its own roots.

The great demiurge or creator God of Athens was Zeus (aka, Jupiter and Marduk) who took control of the universe by overthrowing his father Saturn (aka, Ptah and Ea/Enki).  In my view, the subsequent denigration and demotion of Saturn was, among other things, the work of Athenian propaganda, the same public relations mechanism responsible for misrepresenting the Pythagoreans and the Eleatics, thus paving the way for the ascendancy of Plato (as Peter Kingsley has pointed out). 

I am oversimplifying a very complex matter in order to make the point that mythological traditions predating those that are apparently informing the interpretations of LaViolette and Heath offer a contrary view. Before deciding that these contradictory views of Saturn are ultimately irreconcilable, recall that LaViolette’s matrix of interpretation (the microcosm) is also very different from the cosmological context behind my understanding of Saturn.

Consider, as well, the following: As a composer with a passion for the foundations of mathematics and a dissatisfaction with the metaphorical incoherence of modern mathematics, I have been drawn into a prolonged consideration of number, music tuning theory, the musical mathematics of the ancient world, and ancient cosmologies/mythologies. Wishing to begin at the beginning and to proceed only on the basis of that which is inescapable, I had to unlearn everything I thought I knew.  One of the most valuable things I learned, on the other hand, was an appreciation and respect for the virtue of entertaining more than a few perspectives or viewpoints concerning any given issue. It became quite obvious that none of my “conclusions” could possibly be exclusively true, that no point-of-view could capture or express “all” of reality because all are expressions of a specific focus of attention. An inherently limited focus of attention is that which makes a point-of-view possible in the first place.

This was well-understood in the ancient world. A true spiritual culture has little use for a single, exclusive point-of-view because one point-of-view cannot encapsulate or adequately communicate the intuitive depth that lies at the heart of such a culture. While multiple perspectives cannot do this either, they can be a big improvement—acting, at the very least, as a check upon arrogance and intolerance. The ancients employed the rich multi-layered language of mythology to mirror the depth of reality because it is the most natural and efficient way of simultaneously encoding multiple “points-of-view”.

Multiple perspectives are inevitable and arguably desirable in the case of archaic mythological narratives, driven as they are by often obscure and arcane symbolism and metaphor. This language, while originally quite technical and specific, is also extremely rich, with many layers of meaningful associations. A multitude of anthropomorphic or humanized divine/semi-divine characters strut their stuff on a metaphysical stage, acting out a cosmological (or perhaps microcosmical) drama with obvious stellar implications in even more obvious “historical” garb, but with absolutely no respect for our inbred preference for a tidy chronology and unambiguous causality. Interpreting these tales, as De Santillana would say, is an uninsurable business.

Thus, even mythology cannot say it all because all of It cannot be spoken. Spiritual truth cannot be directly communicated—it can only be pointed to—encircled, so-to-speak, by multiple perspectives. The truth itself, Consciousness Itself, can only be realized by communion. And communion, as they say, is between me and my God and no one else. These days many people feign an ignorance of communion, but anyone who has established and maintained an intimate relationship with his or her cat knows perfectly well what it is.

LaViolette considers ancient mythology in a domain which forces a complete re-evaluation of the concerns and the sophistication of ancient cultures.  Only forty years ago, Hamlet’s Mill argued
that archaic mythology had exclusive cosmographic intent and significance:  it was all about the heavens, the macrocosm.  A pre-historical understanding of the precession of the equinoxes was demonstrated and an unknown, sophisticated proto-culture was cunningly implied.
{pagebreak}
“Genesis of the Cosmos” postulates a similar pre-historical proto-culture but interprets ancient mythology in exactly the opposite direction: it is all about the sub-atomic realm, the microcosm. Both accounts are comprehensive and coherent enough to be (or to seem) plausible. This is quite extraordinary and should give one pause. At the very least, it tells us something about the flexibility and maximal generality of the metaphorical and symbolic language of mythological narratives. If this unparalleled efficiency of means was intended to evoke such a broad interpretive range, we are forced to consider anew the ancient world’s commitment to the idea and the virtue of multiple viewpoints, a both/and approach to the mind’s focused points-of-view that stands in sharp contrast to our inherited Aristotelian either/or dichotomous logic, with its unfortunate winner-take-all presumptuousness.

Hamlet’s Mill implies the probability of a pre-historical proto-culture with the sophistication to understand and to accurately describe the precessional cycle. However, since ancient mythology is understood to be exclusively cosmographic, its thesis does not stand or fall as a consequence of this culture’s historical reality. After all, the motions and cycles of stars and planets can be seen with the naked eye, and precession can be worked out without the use of sophisticated technologies.

LaViolette, on the other hand, boldly asserts the existence of a proto-culture with sophisticated technologies and an advanced understanding. This is because his mythological correlations occur at the microcosmic level, a level we have come to assume is unavailable to any culture less sophisticated than our own. The subquantum level, in fact, is so remotely tiny that it is unobservable in principle. The mythological correlations stand only if this sophisticated proto-culture actually existed. In this regard, it should be noted that a growing body of evidence from numerous fields, while not necessarily conclusive, does support the conjecture that it did exist.
The mythological correspondences in Genesis of the Cosmos may be less than perfect, but I have yet to find any scheme (including my own) of equal breadth which is. More responsible than most, I found LaViolette’s efforts in this direction to be useful, stimulating, and often illuminating. While certainly neither exclusively true nor the only valid approach, he presents us with a thesis whose novelty and overall plausibility are both rare and welcome.

LaViolette, in fact, displays a capacity to think clearly in both a scientific sense and a metaphysical sense. While we would expect a scientist as competent as he to do the science with aplomb, it is uncommon to find this coupled with metaphysical sensibilities.  His study of ancient mythology and cosmology has served him well.  It is encouraging to see the coherence of ancient thought concerning origins taken seriously by a contemporary scientist, especially when these principles are then incorporated into a serious and full-blown theory. 

A case in point is LaViolette’s commitment to the idea of continuous creation (as opposed to the absurd idea of a one and only “first event” in a temporal sense determining all that follows).  His concept of pre-existing space and time is likewise commensurate with ancient views. Despite its divergence from contemporary religious and scientific dogma, it is a cognitive perspective that is both natural to assume and appreciative of the inherent mystery of any arising whatever.

The ancient world’s mythographers and metaphysicians were obviously well aware of the limits of mind with regard to any “explanations” of that which is beyond the reach of mind, even though their traditions enunciated a hierarchically prior reality lying “behind” all appearance.  They had no need to crash and burn at the gates of a theoretical and impenetrable singularity in order to understand the principle of limitation.  Unlike many of our contemporary mathematicians and cosmologists, who suffer an irrational horror of the metaphysical, the ancients could not and did not presume a chummy relationship with the infinite, nor could they have claimed to have “tamed” infinity as our set-theorists have.
{pagebreak}
A pre-existing time and space is a simple statement of a given that cannot be derived by scientific theorizing, however acute the scientific minds that try to do so.  Almost all mythological narratives dealing with cosmic origins begin with just such a posture, and LaViolette has the courage and insight to do the same.  Instead, “Genesis of the Cosmos” simply introduces that which cannot be derived, elaborates upon that which can, and does not pretend to do otherwise. Because of this orientation, LaViolette is able to highlight an important distinction in the Babylonian story of Marduk:  Marduk is not a proper creator god; rather, he “orders” the universe.  He doesn’t create the primordial waters any more than do the Egyptian gods, but he does order the universe by making the necessary moves relative to what he is given.  Implied in all this is a continuous creation and a continuous ordering. Therefore, Marduk is not so much an external entity pulling strings as he is the principle of order itself, coexistent with manifestation.  Despite the requirements of grammatical story-telling, there is no ultimate conflict between “Marduk- ordering” and “self-organization”.

One of the most fundamental tenets of ancient thought is that any arising and persisting Cosmos is inherently harmonious and “well-ordered”.  It is our responsibility to recognize and respect the music of the Whole, just as LaViolette has done, so that we don’t screw it up.  That we have screwed it up, and are continuing to do so with unprecedented gusto, is perhaps the most fundamental reason why books like “Genesis of the Cosmos” deserve our serious consideration.  Most of us know that we are in deep trouble but too few of us recognize that, at root, our metaphysical unconsciousness and our spiritual stupidity are allowing us to passively witness our own self-destruction.  Or so it seems to me.

In Part 3 LaViolette presents a comprehensive refutation of twentieth century cosmology, an enjoyable romp into deeply heretical territory. I was surprised by the scope of his criticisms, but his views cannot be casually dismissed, for he has obviously done his homework and knows the territory.  LaViolette is a Ph.D. with degrees in physics and systems science, and is also a well known and respected researcher who began formulating his unique cosmological theories over 30 years ago.  “Genesis of the Cosmos” throws out more sacred cows per page than any physics book that I’ve ever actually finished reading: special relativity, general relativity, the speed of light as a constant and a cosmic speed limit, Big Bang cosmology, black holes, curved space, the expanding universe, our recently anointed new kids on the block (dark matter and dark energy), and, of course, whatever next week’s ad hoc, add-on, theory-saving contraption of epicyclic convenience turns out to be. I suspect that many actually sane people with clear heads have experienced impure thoughts concerning our almost inconceivably nonsensical Big Bang theory (which is not, incidentally, a theory of cosmic origins). Perhaps this theory is too ugly to be true, but LaViolette says that it is too untrue to be true and that no more of our endless “fine tuning” can save it.

If LaViolette has his facts right, relativistic cosmology is shockingly and chronically out of sync with the observational data. Because of this, as new, more accurate, and theory-damaging data comes in, various ad hoc fixes are inevitably introduced in order to realign the theory with the facts. As a result, it has become increasingly difficult to reconcile the presence of so many band-aids with the notion of a healthy and robust theory. Over the past 80 years, more than a few scientists have published contrary theories—some with cogent criticisms of Big Bang theory. Were they to become better known and seriously considered, our current cosmological thinking would effectively be upended.

Our author also mentions several facts which certainly got my attention and which might interest the reader. Tesla, for example, rejected “curved” space on the basis that space has no properties. I would say that space has the property of extension but that it has no constituents. Either way, the question arises: How could space be curved? What is it that is curved? To help us understand this, all we are given is an illustration of a sphere placed on a rubber sheet. Portraying 3-D space (or 4-D space-time) with a 2-D rubber sheet is as misleading and inappropriate as the related and commonly-used metaphor of “the fabric of space.” Space has none of the characteristics of a fabric or of a rubber sheet. A metaphorical illustration is not an explanation. There is no explanation for “curved space”, and this is why Eddington called it a dodge.

Brian Greene, a physicist who writes excellent books on string theory and cosmology, notes that the central element in the unfolding of cosmic history is one essential fact: the universe is expanding. The expansion of the universe, however, is not a fact. It is a conjecture made in response to the “red-shift” of galaxies observed and reported by Hubble. What is not often reported is that in 1936 Hubble publicly stated that the “expanding universe” interpretation did not fit the observational data and that he essentially favored the “tired light” model, a model which allows light to both speed up (blue-shift) and to slow down (red-shift). This directly contradicts the central and essential assumption that the speed of light is a constant, the theoretical basis at the heart of relativity theory.

Convincing us that the Big Bang is wrong does not tell us that LaViolette’s, or any other theory, is right. And, of course, there are other theories, such as Eric Lerner’s The Big Bang Never Happened. The latter’s criticisms of mainstream cosmology are similar to LaViolette’s, but his theory is a different theory.  It is also one thing to dismiss status-quo theories, and quite another to offer an alternative that is both as comprehensive as the reject and, at the same time, a simpler “likely story.” I can’t speak for Lerner’s work, but with regard to “Genesis of the Cosmos”, this is just what LaViolette has apparently done.

The theory of subquantum kinetics does not itself stand or fall on the basis of any mythological correspondences. It could and should be evaluated on its own terms, as a scientific theory. For this reviewer, however, the mythological connections made the theory fascinating rather than merely interesting. That I could find a fault or two in this area should surprise no one. The proper interpretation of mythology is an open question, and even among professionals there is as much disagreement as agreement. All interpretations involve a bias, a behind-the-scenes context which bestows meaning. LaViolette’s approach is fascinating because it involves a bias or context (the microcosm) which is unique and which I had never seen or considered before. The scientific/mythological correlations are impressive because, with few exceptions, they make sense.

The historical implications of this microcosmic bias are unavoidable and probably even more heretical than the scientific theory which informs the bias. In the remote past there existed an advanced technological human culture more sophisticated than our own. LaVioltte writes: “This ancient science portrays modern scientific concepts such as entropy, order through fluctuation, circular causality, positive feedback, critical mass, spontaneous symmetry breaking, bifurcation, matter/antimatter creation asymmetry, wave pattern self-stabilization, stable periodic states, and sequential quantum jumps to successive steady states”.
This contradicts what most people believe and what many will even consider. We are supposed to be more “evolved” than our ancestors, an unexamined assumption which has probably caused more confusion and misunderstanding than any other. Our recent past and probable future should be enough to raise some doubts concerning our superiority.

Perhaps the greatest value of Genesis of the Cosmos lies in the questions that it raises and the presumptions that it challenges. In this respect, the validity of LaViolette’s scientific theory and the relevance of his mythological correlations, while certainly important, are secondary issues.  Few of us are in a position to evaluate scientific theories or mythological interpretations, but all of us suffer the consequences of our most fundamental beliefs and assumptions—those deeply-rooted, core metaphors which are so familiar and broadly supported that they have become unquestioned, unexamined, and finally unconscious. Whether or not we agree with their conclusions, books that challenge these presuppositions are valuable assets because they force that which was covert to become overt. Aside from Hamlet’s Mill, several others come to mind in this regard:  “Science and the Akashic Field” (by Ervin Laszlo) and “Cataclysm!” (by D.S. Allan and J.B. Delair).  Any book which questions the unquestioned in an intelligent and comprehensive manner deserves an audience. “Genesis of the Cosmos is one of those books.”

© 2007 Raymond Lynch

Raymond Lynch is a composer and musician who has written and produced five albums, including the Platinum album, “Deep Breakfast”.  He is presently in the last stages of writing a book on mathematics, “How Do You Get 2 When 1 Is All You’ve Got?” You can learn more about him and his music at:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raymond_Lynch and http://www.raylynch.com